


keep on whispering in my ear

by gdgdbaby



Series: know you make me feel alright [1]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Coming Untouched, F/M, Gangbang, M/M, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-08 15:13:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14108130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: It feels like Jon's been kneeling for hours, though from the faint voices and the music still floating into the outside room from the pool party, it can't have been more than ten minutes since Emily put him in here.





	keep on whispering in my ear

**Author's Note:**

> written for [this prompt](https://podsavethekink.dreamwidth.org/659.html?thread=34963#cmt34963) on the kink meme, which asked for jon blindfolded and coming untouched; cleaned up here. title from "what i like about you" by the romantics.

It feels like Jon's been kneeling for hours, though from the faint voices and the music still floating into the outside room from the pool party, it can't have been more than ten minutes since Emily put him in here. The strip of soft fabric she pressed over his eyes is starting to chafe against the overheated skin of his forehead, the bridge of his nose; he never remembers to put on enough sunscreen when they spend a Saturday afternoon lazing around the deck, and he always forgets until it's too late. His knees don't hurt yet, but his hips are beginning to go a little stiff.

He hopes someone comes in soon. Till then, he's just going to have to wait.

They do this sometimes, on slow weekends, when there's room and time to actually relax. They're fewer and further between these days, but it seems like every week has been difficult lately, all of them treading water in shitty news, wading through wave after wave of it. Sometimes Jon wants to—stop thinking about everything, just for a moment. Wants to close his eyes and focus on the flex in his thighs, how someone's hand feels cradling his chin or touching his shoulders, holding him down.

There's a creak from the entrance, the sound of the door swinging open, and Jon straightens up, wrists crossed behind his back. His ears crane toward the rustle of bare feet against the floorboards and then the rug. He likes doing this in his head, likes trying to figure out who it is before they tell him, piece together the clues. It helps to have something to think about when he's waiting, something to anchor him through the anticipation churning in his gut, something to keep him from floating away.

"Was wondering where you went," comes the voice at last, and it's Tommy. Of course it is. A big, broad hand settles against the nape of Jon's neck, fingers curling loosely at his hairline. "I should've known, but it's been a while."

Jon doesn't say anything, but Tommy doesn't expect him to. Not right now, anyway.

He lifts his head instead, lips parting, and breathes in through his nose. This close, Tommy smells like chlorine from the pool and the milkiness of his sunscreen. Jon can feel the guitar calluses on the tips of Tommy's fingers rubbing along his skin, hear the steady gust of his breath. It's funny, the little details he picks up when he can't see.

Tommy brings his other hand up, brushes his thumb against Jon's lower lip and then slips past it, pressing in and holding at the center of his tongue. It's not a dick, but it's something to suck on, so Jon does. He knows how this goes, has done it enough times that he knows what Tommy likes.

"You really need it, huh," Tommy says, sounding fond, and Jon makes a soft noise around his finger. He's already starting to get a little hard in his swimming shorts, light-headed thinking about Tommy feeding him his cock, pressing close, making him choke on it. It would be more embarrassing if Jon was around different people.

He isn't, though. He's with his people—one of his people—and Tommy laughs as Jon shifts restlessly against the floor, his entire body flushing, nails digging into his palms as he keeps his hands still.

"Okay, okay," Tommy says, and pulls his thumb away. There's the sound of a waistband snapping, Tommy spitting in his hand and jacking himself a couple of times, before the smooth head of his dick bumps up against Jon's mouth.

Jon's just starting to really get into licking around the tip when he hears the door swing open again, the patter of more feet making their way around the big couch behind him. "Oh, there you are," Lovett says, light and breezy, but the small hands that land on Jon's shoulders aren't his. He can feel the cool press of a ring against his skin, so it's either Emily, or—

"Hey," Hanna says, hair tickling his shoulder. "Tommy's keeping you all for himself, is he?"

"We'd literally just gotten started," Tommy protests, but there's laughter in his voice. For a moment, Jon can't tell who's touching him, where he's being maneuvered, but they're coaxing him onto his hands and knees, tugging his swim shorts off. The couch creaks as someone—Tommy?—sits down on it, puts his hands up against Jon's face, and pulls him back in.

He hasn't sucked a dick in a while, and it takes him a minute to get into the right rhythm, settle into the heavy feeling against his tongue, the fullness in his mouth. Breathe in, breathe out, hollow your cheeks. Jon bobs down, lips stretching around the silky shaft, and feels Tommy's hands twitch around his ears.

"Emily's putting the dogs back in the house," Lovett murmurs. He's close, too—maybe cross-legged on the floor next to him. Jon can see it in his mind's eye. Lovett reaches beneath Jon to tug at his half-chub, brisk, until he's all the way hard, heavy between his legs. "We'll take care of you until she gets here."

Jon goes tense when he hears the sound of something being uncapped behind him, and one of Tommy's hands slides around to the back of his neck again, squeezes, a gentle warning. "Focus, Jon," he says, firm enough that Jon shivers. He wants to be good; he wants to do everything, be everything. His arms wobble as Tommy hits the back of his throat and pushes farther.

He doesn't gag, but it's a near-miss, and his eyes prickle as he struggles to take a breath through his nose. There's no time to recover, though, because Tommy rolls his hips, nudging deeper, at the same time Hanna presses a small, slick hand up against the curve of Jon's ass, probing at his hole.

To his left, Jon hears the snap of a phone camera going off, because Lovett's—God, of course he's taking pictures. "Ronan says you look good," he says after a moment, and Jon's faintly gratified to hear the wobble in his voice.

Jon does choke around Tommy when Hanna finally sinks a finger inside him, slow and inexorable. It's not enough, but it's something, and he gasps when Tommy threads a hand through his hair and pulls him back so his mouth is free. He hadn't had much to drink earlier, when they were all sitting out by the pool, but he feels kind of tipsy anyway, untethered, the entire world winnowing down to where he's being touched.

He jerks when Hanna slides three fingers into him without warning, head lolling against Tommy's thigh. A hand—Lovett's, maybe—smooths down Jon's trembling back, rubbing at the sweat starting to gather there, and Jon sighs, pushing back.

He registers the door opening one last time, the way it clicks shut with a distinct air of finality, and then Emily's fingers are carding through his hair. He'd know the weight of her hand anywhere, the way her nails scrape lightly against his scalp. Jon can't help the frantic noise that falls out of his mouth, and she says, "Shh, baby, you're doing so well."

He doesn't quite manage to bite back a sob, but that's okay, it's okay, they're all here now. Emily guides him back down toward Tommy's dick, and Jon takes him all the way in one fluid sweep, tongue pressed up against the thick vein on the underside. His mouth feels hot and tender and malleable; his body feels boneless, shoulders sagging, chin dripping with sweat and saliva and the sticky residue of Tommy's precome.

"Isn't he doing well? Tell him, Lovett," Emily says.

Lovett laughs, low and rough, before leaning in to brush his mouth across Jon's temple. "Don't you already get enough praise?" he says, clicking his tongue, and laughs again when Jon whines. "Fine, fine. You know what you look like. It's ridiculous." Tommy huffs, and Jon redoubles his efforts, his own cock twitching when Tommy makes a muffled sound above him.

"Real eloquent—for a former speechwriter," Tommy says.

Lovett lets out an indignant noise. "I'm a little distracted, thanks." Behind Jon, Hanna chuckles too, husky. She's sliding four fingers into him, now, twisting up in a way that makes Jon's head spin. He reaches up blindly, curls a hand around the base of Tommy's cock, mouth making a wet, obscene slurp. He doesn't know if Tommy's going to come in his mouth, but he wants it, wants to feel the flood of jizz across his tongue, wants to be able to swallow all of it.

"I forgot how desperate he gets," Tommy says, and it could almost be conversational except for the way his breath catches at the end. Something hot rushes through Jon, a mixture of shame and arousal, and he works his throat, his tongue, tries to take him even deeper. "Ah, fuck, I'm gonna—"

"Yeah, do it, Tommy," Lovett says, pulling back as if to watch. "Come all over his stupid, perfect face."

The hands in Jon's hair yank his head up and away, and the first spurt of come across his cheek makes him squeeze helplessly around Hanna's fingers. He makes a bereft noise when she pulls out completely, clenching around nothing. He slides his tongue out to try and catch some of Tommy's come in his mouth, breath wheezing out of him.

"My turn," Emily says, in front of him now as the couch shifts, her careful fingers wiping at his chin before she eases his face back down. She's wet already, and Jon swallows before he curls her tongue up against her, flicking out and smiling when her thighs clench around his head, the heel of one of her feet knocking against the slope of his back.

He's so focused on making her lose her breath that he doesn't notice what's happening behind him until a small hand digs into his hip, and then Lovett—it has to be Lovett, fuck—lines himself up against Jon's asshole and starts pushing in.

Jon sucks so hard against Emily's clit that she cries out, nails digging into his skin. Lovett had been wearing a wet t-shirt outside, earlier, floating on an inflatable flamingo in the pool with his sunglasses propped against his forehead, kicking water periodically at anyone who passed by. It's still slightly damp, cool against Jon's back, and Jon shudders as Lovett pushes in to the hilt, murmuring in his ear, "Shit, you're so tight, Jon," every other word cracking. "Hanna opened you up and you're still—Jesus."

He can hear Hanna making noise on the other end of the sectional, where Tommy must be—must be doing something, eating her out, or stroking his fingers inside her, or maybe—maybe he's still hard, maybe he's fucking her. Something about the combination of that image and Emily's sweet, tangy musk filling his mouth and the insistent, delicious friction of Lovett tucked inside him, hips hitching—something about all of it makes his breath burn up in his chest, makes his eyes prickle again, the hard line of his dick twitching. He pants wetly against Emily's pussy, tongue sliding inside her as she runs her fingers through his hair again.

"Please," he croaks, the first word he's said since he left the deck, and his voice sounds like broken glass, rough and jagged. "Please—I need—"

"Just hold on a little bit longer, babe," Emily says, labored, and she reaches out to slide the blindfold off. He blinks up at her, squinting against the light. She's still wearing the bikini top she had on earlier, and she's smiling, damp flyaway pieces of her hair curling around her face. "Wait just a second and you can come, I promise."

Jon shuts his eyes and sinks into it, hands scrabbling up to curl against her hips. He pushes back against Lovett, who sounds winded, too. Maybe it shouldn't be a point of pride, that Jon can do this to him, shut him up for just a moment, make him lose his breath—but it is. It is. It's perfect.

"You want him to come in you?" Emily says, and her voice is high and tight and thin, the way it sounds when she's close, so close, about to come. Jon always wants to take her there. His jaw is sore and his face is a mess and she's rising up to meet the stroke of his tongue, rolling her hips. She laughs when Jon nods, reckless and wanting. "Lovett, you—"

"Yeah, I—yeah," Lovett manages. His fingers bite into Jon's back, pinning him up against the seat of the couch, and he fucks into Jon so hard that Jon can feel it when he tries to swallow, can feel it all the way in his throat. _He's been working out_ , Jon thinks, absurdly, too giddy, and has to bite his own lip to keep from coming when Lovett does, bent over so that his curls brush against Jon's shoulders, groaning long and loud.

Emily squirms beneath Jon's mouth when he latches onto her clit again, and he can feel it when she comes once, and then two more times in immediate succession as he laps up to gather the sticky wetness on his tongue, keeps sucking her through it. "Holy shit," she murmurs, gut-punched, shivering, eyes half-lidded as she gazes down at him.

Lovett slides out of him with a slick pop, which is what does it, actually—Jon clenches around nothing, hips collapsing, and comes before he can even think about trying to stop it. His eyes flutter shut, and he gasps, "Sorry," but Emily presses a soothing hand to his cheek, says, "It's okay, it's okay, just let it happen, you deserve it, honey, you did so well," and Jon pants through it, every nerve in his body singing.

 

 

Someone's brought Jon a glass of water when he floats back down to earth. He's also been arranged on his side on the sectional, a clean beach towel thrown over him. His knees fucking ache, and his back is going to feel terrible tomorrow. He knows how it goes.

Now, though, he feels pretty incredible, oozing against the cushions, a human blob of endorphins. His hand shakes when he reaches out for the glass of water, and it takes him a minute to sit up.

Outside, in the the backyard, he can hear Tommy telling Lovett to throw the ball, and the dogs barking. Or—well, the singular dog barking, so it must be Pundit. He's still finishing his water when the door opens again, and Emily slides through with a wet washcloth in her hands. She's thrown on an oversized t-shirt, but her feet are still bare. "How do you feel?"

"I'm getting too old for this," Jon groans, flourishing a hand at his knees, and she laughs.

"Still got it, though," she says. She's smirking when she passes him the washcloth. "Lovett sent some _very_ nice photos."

Jon's face goes hot, even though he should be used to this by now.

Emily's eyes flash. "Ronan was sad he missed it."

"Hmm," Jon says, stretching out, pulling Emily with him, ignoring the way she yelps about how he's still sticky and how she just showered. "When's he in town next? We could arrange something."

She wiggles back against him. "We could," she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice. "I think he's counting on it." She huffs when he ducks in to press his mouth to her neck. "Are you ready for another round again? So soon?"

"You created this monster," he says, which is close enough to the truth that she doesn't protest. Just laughs again, turning in the circle of his arms, and kisses him quiet.


End file.
